The Grand Tour
by LosGatos
Summary: Jack Rourke is desperate for money! In his unwavering desperation, has he accidently gone in over his head? Will he be able to get across europe quicker than an ensemble cast of Need for Speed characters no one has ever heard of? Click and find out!
1. Chapter One: Coming to Ireland

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning of the Beginning of the End.

I sat on Aer Lingus flight 1014, wondering how in the name of Jesus Harold Christ I had gotten myself in this mess. What I knew about The Grand Tour scared the living, breathing shit out of me, but I was totally sure I knew the worst of it. After all, what could be worse than the penalty of failure being death? Maybe it was all Sam's fault. She knew you were desperate to clear your debts, she knew you were a good driver. She also knew that she was in your will. The contents of your whole bank account, left to her in the unfortunate event of your death. I may only have been 23, but I lived a dangerous life. A will acted as a sort of safety net, keeping safe those around me. Mainly Sam and Ryan.

Ryan Cooper had been a good friend to me since middle school. His father had worked in the old Ford Factory in Detroit, and his Grandfather had overseen the production of the Ford Model T. Real car nut. By the time he was 14, he could rattle off 20 Facts about the BMW M3 E36 from memory, even though no one in the neighbourhood could afford something like that. Ryan had set me up with my first car, an old '69 Chevy El Camino. Me and him cruised the streets of Palmont city in that thing. Sure, we drew our share of attention from the local 5-0, but we didn't care. Cars were our escape from the gang shit that happened around us every day. When we were 18, Ryan got involved in a street race that went badly wrong. He fled to Rockport and proceeded to become one of the most wanted men in America, but we kept in touch. When he heard of The Grand Tour, he knew we had to participate. He would be a sort of manager for me, as Sam was still living it up with the 23.5 million I had won for her. We were supposed to meet her at the race's halfway point. Where that was, I still wasn't sure.

"Jack? You awake?" I heard Ryan's voice in my ear, speaking in the same hushed tones he always had. "Yeah, Unfortunately" I replied. I was not looking forward to this. "After all. We might die." "You have to quit being so negative," came his reassurances. "I know we can win this. I have good cars; you have good driving abilities, what the hell could stop us?" "You're too flippant," I replied, as he was starting to irritate me. "This is putting everything on the line. If we can't win this, the organizers will kill us. If we escape those guys, the mafia will kill us. Unless we win, we're pretty much fucked."

We left Belfast City Airport and got into a shabby looking cab that took us southwards. We must have been going for about 6 hours when the driver said "Your stop, now pay me and get out." At least that's what I think he said, his Irish accent being so thick it was hard to tell. We had arrived at Delphi Valley, or as Ryan put it, "Nature's Asshole." All bogs and thick greenery. There was supposed to be a garage around here somewhere. "Three biggest killers in this part of the world," Ryan said with some enthusiasm. "Drink, Drugs and Association Soccer. In that order." "Gee, real interesting," Came my tired reply. "And where in the hell is this garage? We've been walking for like 2 hours now." I had spoken too soon. It came into view at the end of a desolate road, A place that looked like no one had visited in a good ten million years. "The cars are just in there," Announced Ryan. I initially thanked god, but my heart sunk as I saw the junkers that lay inside. "Higher performance vehicles become available as the race goes on," Ryan explained. "Now pick one." I looked at a Nissan 300ZX, a '95 Volkswagen Jetta GLX, and a scrapheap ready Mitsubishi GTO. But out of the corner of my eye, a gleaming red BMW caught my attention. Ryan looked worried.


	2. Chapter Two: Sweet Exposition

CHAPTER 2: The Race to the Race.

"OK," Admitted Ryan. "That's mine. I was hoping you wouldn't see it, but I knew you would find it." A BMW M3 E30, the sport model no less, was standing before my eyes. "Won it in a poker game in San Fran, spent about 40 large in cash doing her up. New engine, new gearbox. Shit, I pretty much gutted the entire car and put new parts in. she's my pride and joy." He continued. "Alright," I acknowledged, with something that almost passed for enthusiasm. "You're my co-driver, so where and when does this race start?" Ryan looked at his watch. His eyes widened. It was about six at night. "Holy shit!" He exclaimed. "We're gonna be late!"

I drove at breakneck speed past various towns and villages in various states of dilapidation. This really was Ireland's badlands. Ryan sat in the passenger seat, Looking as though he would crap himself at every corner. The red M3 handled like a dream, sliding around hairpin bends and these strange circle roads called roundabouts without a single problem. But maybe that was just my amazing skill behind the wheel. "We have to make it Wexford before sundown," Ryan gasped. "Or they start without us!" "Relax," I said, stunned by the car's performance. "Who are we going up against anyway?" Ryan fumbled for an envelope in his pocket. "Don't know, haven't looked at the list yet." He grumbled. He opened the envelope and scanned the list of participants.

"Few guys I met on my travels." He explained. "First up, Nathan Cross. He drives a Corvette and he's mean as hell, so watch out. Mind you, he did help me out of trouble, for some cash at least. So go easy on him." "Next up is Clarence Callaghan. He has a name like a banker, so he likes to call himself Razor. He's a fair challenge; just don't let him sabotage another one of my cars." "Understood," I replied. "And anyone else?" "Eh, Few guys. Nothing we can't handle."

As we approached the town of Wexford, I started to sense something was wrong. There was a massive traffic jam. People were sounding their horns and swearing loudly. Ryan looked nervous. "Wait," he said. "I'll get on the phone with the organizers. They can explain this." He frantically tapped at the mobile and waited for the connection. He didn't even get to open his mouth before the flat, toneless voice came through the speaker. He just hung up. "Organizers say police have caught wind of what's going on and they've set up a checkpoint into the city. How they know isn't important. What is important is making our way in without being noticed. They'll have our criminal records. How the hell are we going to manage this?"


	3. Chapter Three: Mine Eyes Glaze Over

CHAPTER 3: It all gets a bit violent.

"I can't believe we're going to do this. Are you sure about this?" "Absolutely." Ryan replied. "What could possibly go wrong?" "Don't start," I snarled. "If this goes wrong, we're dead. If someone sees us, we're dead. What's not to like?

We had pulled onto a country lane that was deserted except for the presence of a large truck, which said "Parcel Force" down the side. Ryan was insistent on him doing all the talking, as apparently he knew exactly what he was going to say. We got out of the car and walked towards the driver's side of the cab. I almost forgot these people had seats on the wrong side. "Hey!" Called Ryan. "We could use some help out here!" The driver then replied with a thick Irish accent. "Alright then, you two young fellas, how can I help you?" He said, getting out of the cab. He was a short man, probably in his thirties. I guessed he maybe had a wife and kids. Shame. I struggled to contain my laughter at his almost comedy accent, before remembering the gross inhumanity I was supposed to be committing. "Our engine." Ryan replied. "It's absolutely flooded to pieces." The driver had a suspicious look on his face. "Sounded alright just a few moments ago." Ryan was becoming impatient. "Just help us out, alright?"

The driver seemed to struggle to the BMW, as if he couldn't believe that he was about to help two foreign strangers with funny accents. Joke's on him now. As the driver moved to open the bonnet, I produced the gun from under my jacket. "Hands up, dickhead!" A line I hoped would startle him. He actually seemed begrudgingly accepting. As he put his hands behind his head, He started to laugh.

"So then, I suppose you're Bonnie and he's Clyde?" The driver said, as if it happened to him every day. "Nothing quite so personal," I replied calmly. "Now get in the fucking car." He did so slowly, like he was trying his hardest to piss off Ryan. "I haven't got time for this! Move your ass, before you choke on a bullet!" Ryan seemed like he might have been enjoying himself a bit too much.

Driving down the road to the police checkpoint, it was quite hard not to feel conspicuous. I wondered what the hell Ryan was playing at. He was never this cold, nor this ruthless. "You can get up now," I said to the man in the back, doing my best to sound like a total bastard. "Your heart's not in this, young lad. I know it isn't. Your hands are shaking. Put that gun down, son." What a total smartarse. He acted like he had done this a thousand times before, and this is what pissed me off. I felt genuine anger as I punched him, hard in the face. "Oh dear," laughed Ryan. "Someone's got blood on my brand new carpet! You'd better clean it up before the repo man comes for your kidneys!" I began to feel like Ryan was literally going insane before my eyes. The massive knife he had produced didn't really help matters. "Shouldn't you focus on driving the damn car? The police checkpoint is just ahead!"

"Ok, here's how we're going to do this." Ryan had gone from total psychopath back to quiet strategist. "I drive; you just point the gun at Paddy's head and make sure the 5-0 gets a look at you. Also, pull a face like a man who's just been convicted on a sex charge." Well, there goes the notion he might still be sane. We pulled up to the checkpoint and made sure officer idiot knew we had a hostage whilst Ryan sang to himself,

Here comes the Beemer, crossing the border

With a man in the back causing chaos and disorder

Blood on the carpets, blood on the seat

Bleeding like an idiot sack of meat

Police on my left, police on my right

Look at me funny and I'll start a fight

We are the champions

We rule the world

Oh my god the man in the back has just hurled

Clean that up you little scab

I have a knife and I will stab.

"He's totally lost it," I thought to myself. "He's singing that aloud. In a British accent. I am sitting in a car with a psychopath and a hostage. What have I been drinking?" But I hadn't been drinking anything. I couldn't stop during The Run, and I was put on the plane almost immediately afterwards. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in 2 weeks, and it was beginning to show. The only sleep I had gotten in the past 2 days was half an hour in the back of a Lincoln Town Car on the way to JFK International Airport. I didn't feel the same when I woke up. I felt drugged, altered. Must have just been the sensation of not feeling dead. I felt normal. When I had been driving across America, I looked at the people in New York and did not feel like one of them. I felt as though reality had passed me over and deemed me unworthy. When I woke up, the sky had turned from red to blue. The grass was once again green and I no longer felt like I was being chased. I felt like I was being watched.


	4. Chapter Four: Intrepid

CHAPTER 4: Bound 4 Da Wakeup.

I woke up, frozen. "Jack." I heard a voice say. "Jack! You can put the gun down now! We made it past the checkpoint!" In my reminiscence, I had totally forgotten that I was holding a revolver at an innocent trucker's head. "Sorry about that," I said rather sheepishly. "I had a weird flashback."

"Oh, so you're acid heads as well now, eh? Hahahah!" The Irishman roared his head off. Ryan snapped. It was in the blink of an eye that I found 6 teeth to be flying through the air, like graceless performers in some wildly pretentious Avant-Garde ballet. More blood on the carpet. Shit. It was gathering in a massive pool. Clearly, the Irishman fancied himself a hardass. "Just around this corner is where we're going to dump you. From there, you will visit the hospital. You are to tell them you fell down the stairs. When you have been fixed up, you are to call up your employer and tell him you were robbed and don't want to make a fuss about it. You will then quit. Go home to your wife and walk in on her having an affair with the milkman. Beat the shit out of her and-"

"Ryan! Jesus! Don't you think you're being a bit harsh on him?" "And that was always your problem, Jackie boy. You were always so concerned about right and wrong." Came the snarky reply. "Ok, Irish boy, time to get out. Don't forget to punch the milkman!" "Go fuck yourself!" Yelled a bloody, stout man, standing in an alley.

"What the hell was that?" I yelled as soon as we were clear. Ryan drove with an emotionless face. "It's called an act, Dear Mr Rourke. And had you realised that and gone along with it, that bastard might not have been so cocky. Then you wouldn't have had to knock all his teeth out, and thus satisfied your sense of self-righteousness, capeesh?"

Ryan drove us onward towards Rosslare Harbour. It was here that the participants would be loaded onto a boat which would deliver us unto the starting line in Liverpool. The starting line outside the place The Beatles had their humble beginnings. Well, that's what the brochure said, at least.

The boat was hardly a luxury Gin Palace; in fact it looked like something an illegal immigrant might call impoverished. There was a long line of cars stretching from the harbour onto the boat, and there were two men on the bridge who checked each individual car for anything that might compromise safety and secrecy. Mainly secrecy.

We pulled into line behind a green Mazda RX-7. A skinny Asian man in his early 20's got out and approached us. "Oh god," sighed Ryan. "This is going to be fun."

"Cooper! I'll have your goddamn head!" Yelled the Mysterious Asian. He looked as if he wanted a fight started. If he wanted it, I'd throw him right in the ocean, because the race hadn't even started yet and I had had enough drama for one day. The security guys stopped examining the blue Aston Martin in front of the Asian and rushed over to hold him back.

"That's Kenji," Ryan explained. "After he came back to Palmont City with his tail between his legs, he begged me for his car back. I told him were he could find it, and he found it at the bottom of a canyon. Not my fault he tuned it wrong." "Who was in that Aston?" I asked him. "Later. For now, you need to rest. We'll be in Liverpool in about 2 hours and-"

I had fallen asleep by then.


	5. Chapter 5: Blood, Sweat, and Vomit

The Run part 4

I had woken up. It's not every day that you find yourself in a car full of blood and vomit. on a boat. In pitch darkness. With a potential psycho sitting right next to you. "I'm sorry about earlier." Ryan said suddenly. "I should have told you I was going to do it."

So now he has split personality disorder as well?

"it's fine," I sighed. "Just don't pull shit like that again. This thing stinks, roll down the window."

He did roll down the window. Unfortunately, The smell outside was even worse. It smelled like a mixture of rust, saltwater, and human excrement.

"Jeeeeesus." Coughed Ryan. That is some powerful stuff. Remind me not to take orders from you again." "Turn on the lights." I told him. "We're in a shipping container. What do you expect to see, the name of the company the organizers bribed to get us on here?"

"Bribed?"

"Oh yeah. This race wasn't cheap. European shipping companies have just had their stock put up and I don't think it's due to a sudden rise in the number of high-performance sports cars in the continent. The organizers have all their fingers in several pies, and they use that to their full advantage.

"Who are these organizers you keep going on about?"

"Each racer has an organizer assigned to them. These guys deal with transport, border control, and legal issues. Our organizer is some guy called Fisker. We meet him in Liverpool. I've spoken to him, he's an uptight welsh bastard with no sense of humour and a stick the size of Africa up his ass."

"Where does this race end?"

"I don't know for sure. I'm guessing Italy, or maybe Russia."

"What's our route and when do we change cars?"

"From Liverpool, we race down to Dover. I have a garage there with a few things that should make the trip a little bit easier. We arrive by boat in Calais, in France. I don't know where we go from there, but Fisker will tell us."

"Did you hear that noise?"

The container began to open. I could see light. I could hear the sea. We were in England.


	6. Chapter 6: Sick Everywhere

Liverpool. City of art, music, and culture. And since the HMS Rust Bucket pulled into town, Racers.

We were let out of our shipping container. The daylight was blinding. The BMW was seriously beginning to stink. "I can't take it anymore!" Yelled Ryan. "Lucky this was just to get us here, I have another car…. Somewhere." "Where are we headed?" I asked him. "Top Ten Club. Follow GPS." He sounded like he was going to faint. We turned a few corners out of the Docks, before arriving at a set of lights. A few shady looking kids with hoodies up and music blasting pulled up beside us in a Peugeot 306. Massive spoiler, 19 inch rims, and yet an engine the size of a fly. Everything about these guys screamed "Poser."

"Oi blood! Blood! You get me?" Yelled the one in the passenger seat. "You kids want something?" I answered. They seemed to take offence at this. "Oi trust me mate, you and dat scrapheap ain't worth nothin!" I was beside myself with laughter. "Alright then, kids. On green, I'm gonna go for it. You won't be able to keep up, so don't kid yourselves."

This made passenger boy very angry. "I bet you, man! I bet you fifty quid you can't beat us!" He yelled in his tough guy voice. I didn't even have any money, but I didn't need it.

"Smoke 'em." Groaned Ryan.  
>Red Light.<br>Yellow Light.  
>Green.<br>Drop the clutch and put it in first. 20. 40. 60. Change gear.  
>Bury accelerator. 60. 70. 75. Change gear.<br>Quick footwork. 75. 80. 90. Change gear.  
>90. 93. Slam brakes.<p>

That took about twelve and a half seconds. But I think some of those changes could have been smoother. The manky orange Peugeot and its idiotic inhabitants were barely halfway there. I didn't have time to wait, so I just sped on.

"Gragghhh." Moaned Ryan. "Jesus, man. You need a doctor." "I don't need no doctor!" he lashed. I should point out he did this right before throwing up in the footwell. All of a sudden, I remembered a question I was dying to ask him. "Who was in that Aston on the boat?" I asked. "Wolf. Fucking prick he is. Pull in here.


End file.
